


Bear With Us

by Mums_the_Word, Treon



Category: White Collar
Genre: A Parade of Bold Crimes, Fingerprints, Gen, Neal is quite young and cocky, Questionable Evidence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26388979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treon/pseuds/Treon
Summary: Pre-Series AU. Neal and Mozzie commit stupendous heists right under Peter’s nose, but the frustrated FBI agent can’t prove a thing, because the two thieves have a unique advantage in their bag of tricks.
Relationships: Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 40
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little fiction written by Treon and me after my co-author stumbled across a very tantalizing scientific fact. It fairly screamed to be fashioned into a Neal-Peter pre-series story. So, we put our heads together and each of us set to work creating the chapters until it grew into the ultimate cat and mouse story.

Mozzie and Neal were now back in New York City after pulling a very lucrative heist in Italy. Working in tandem, they had managed to snag an extremely rare and valuable Botticelli painting from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. The masterpiece, _Pallas and the Centaur_ , was tempera on canvas and almost 6 feet in height, so their theft had to be equally masterful. After Mozzie had taken the security system off-line, Neal had slipped into the museum and carefully rolled the delicate Renaissance piece into a length of carpeting. He then used a loading dock trolley to waltz it out the cellar doors and onto a truck with Mozzie at the wheel. Next, it was off to Copenhagen to rendezvous with a very avid and shrewd collector of 15th century Italian artwork. Now flush with euros in their bank account in the Caymans, Mozzie and Neal had come home, if you could call New York an actual home for two grifters who traveled the globe. But the Big Apple had a certain allure, namely, some of the most tempting art museums and jewelry stores in the world. Neal was the first to admit that he always felt like a greedy kid in a candy store when he walked the marbled hallways of the MoMA or strolled along West 47th Street with its plethora of diamond merchants.

It didn’t take very long before Mozzie grew antsy and began dreaming up new schemes. Tonight he had come to collect Neal from his tiny, nondescript walk-up apartment in SoHo. The little bald man had decided to take his young cohort to one of his new safehouses that dotted the city. It was just to test the waters to see if Neal was interested in a quite clever caper that he had concocted. Actually, Mozzie thought it was kind of ingenious.

Neal was used to Mozzie’s quixotic and spur-of-the-moment actions, and the con man thought nothing could surprise him anymore when it came to Moz. However, he found that he was wrong about that as soon as he followed his friend up three stories on the exterior of an old abandoned grain elevator in Red Hook. Eventually, Mozzie stopped at a metal door and the two partners stepped inside onto a newly constructed wooden floor in a warm and humid circular room that featured a glass atrium. Under the translucent panes that allowed filtered light into the space, a healthy-looking, lush tree was flourishing quite nicely. As Neal drew closer, the pungent smell of eucalyptus permeated the air. In a nanosecond, a stunned young man was frowning and turning to face his little buddy.

“Is that actually a live koala bear hanging out in that tree, Moz?” Neal asked in an astounded voice.

“Yep, a handsome specimen of the arboreal herbivorous marsupials native to Australia. If you want to get technical, his scientific name is Phascolarctos Cinereus, but he doesn’t stand on ceremony. You can just call him Brahms.”

“Brahms?” Neal mumbled faintly.

“Yeah, I’m sorta partial to those old and venerable German composers. I thought of other names like Beethoven or Bach, but this little guy’s temperament is more suited to Brahms and his lullabies rather than the more zestful concertos and rousing symphonies of the other two orchestral geniuses.”

“Okay, I have a few questions,” Neal murmured. “How did he get here? Why is he living in your safe house? And why is the little critter staring at me with half-lidded, suspicious eyes while he’s munching on a leaf?”

Mozzie huffed a put-upon sigh. “Okay, mon frère, one answer at a time. Brahms is a survivor of the extensive out-of-control wildfires that recently decimated the Australian countryside. He was rescued by an international group of animal conservationists and literally nursed back to health from the jaws of death. Somehow, he was smuggled out of the country and wound up here in the States. He was advertised by an exotic animal dealer on the Dark Web, and once I saw his picture, I had to act. Who knows what kind of pretentious celebrity would try to add him to their posse so they could take selfies with him and boast about their rare specimen. Did you know that Elvis once had a pet kangaroo? Kirstie Alley has lemurs, and Paris Hilton owns a kinkajou. Well, I think Brahms shouldn’t be exploited like that. He deserves his privacy. He’s a quiet little soul who asks for little. Koalas are quite sedentary and sleep for up to 20 hours a day. To answer your last question, Neal, those cute button eyes aren’t peering at you suspiciously. As I mentioned, he isn’t really a firecracker in action, so looking drowsy is his natural state.”

“Do you actually know how to care for a koala bear, Moz?” Neal asked yet another question.

“I did my due diligence,” Mozzie reassured his friend as he tapped the side of his head. “Brahms will live in the lap of luxury as he sleeps away his days. Even if I’m absent for a while, he’s a pretty self-sufficient little guy as long as he’s got his tree and his leaves to sustain him. Eucalyptus greenery is basically the sum total of a koala’s diet.”

Neal turned to Mozzie with a cynical eye. “That’s fine as long as you don’t expect me to empty any litter box if you get waylaid by some new idea that takes you out of town.”

“Perish the thought, Neal,” Mozzie snarked. “Now, stop being such a killjoy. What if I told you that our little Brahms is in possession of some very valuable attributes that could come in handy down the road?”

“Such as?” Neal asked with one eyebrow cocked.

Mozzie looked up at his young friend myopically. “Well, as you are well aware, I always put in my time doing extensive research before I commit to anything. You, on the other hand, are usually the impulsive, rash one, while I am the epitome of careful planning and implementation. While poring over everything I could find about koala bears, I stumbled on a little known fact.”

“Do tell, Mr. Wikipedia,” Neal taunted.

“Stop being so condescendingly snippy, young grasshopper. You’ve got a lot to learn from the Master,” Mozzie chided.

“I’m listening,” Neal said contritely as he took a seat on a comfortable sofa and glanced up at Brahms with a wary eye.

Mozzie suddenly looked animated. “Well, I just happened to find out something very interesting on a scientific website. I’ll give you the link so you don’t think I made it up. These pint-sized marsupials actually have fingerprints that are practically identical to human ones. Even the best analysts using powerful magnification have a hard time distinguishing the loops, whirls, and ridges from those of actual human fingerprints. So, how do you like them apples, mon frère?”

“Okay,” Neal drawled. “Exactly how does that zoological phenomenon fit into our scenario?”

“It gives us an advantage, one that we need right now thanks to your carelessness in Florence last month. While wining and dining the Contessa Del Marco, you left your fingerprints on a wine goblet at the restaurant. A lurking Interpol agent scooped up that glass and, thanks to my proficient hacking into their data base, we now know they have a clear print of your right index finger and thumb. The rest of your prints were too smeared to be of any use.”

“I had no idea they were stalking me,” Neal objected. “And it wasn’t like I could wear a pair of gloves to have a romantic dinner with the Contessa.”

“The authorities are _always_ watching,” Mozzie stressed. “And for the life of me, I don’t know why you asked that woman out to dinner. She’s on the far side of 60, even if she likes to pretend otherwise because of all the plastic work she’s had done to her face. You should have asked her granddaughter, Lady Marietta, to be your date. That would have attracted far less attention from the Italian paparazzi. Your handsome mug was all over the scandal rags the next day.”

Neal grimaced. “The lovely Lady Marietta told me, quite frankly, that she wasn’t interested in the attentions of a randy heterosexual male. She said she preferred her sorority sisters, if you get my drift,” he explained succinctly.

“Oh!” Mozzie reacted before murmuring, _“quoi que ce soit,”_ with a shrug.

“Just listen, Moz, before you get all upset and start lecturing me about my hubris. I know it drives you crazy when I push the envelope, but, sometimes, it’s just so much fun to taunt the hunters trying to take me down. I like flaunting my exploits to frustrate them because they have no evidence linking me to any crimes. They may think I committed a robbery but they have no proof. I didn’t leave even a smudge of evidence during the Uffizi job, so they’ve got nothing.”

“Earth to Neal!” Mozzie all but bellowed. “They’ve got two of your fingerprints in the system.”

“But they won’t ever be able to match them to anything because I’m always careful,” Neal said logically.

Mozzie took a gulp of his wine and refilled his glass to regain a semblance of his normal patient equilibrium. Eventually, he regrouped and began to look sly. “I’m thinking that maybe we should engineer some shady business here in the city, and this time we actually do leave a little in the way of evidence behind. Undoubtedly, the FBI keeps in contact with Interpol and they share information. Get Homeland Security into the act, and everybody and their uncle now knows that Neal Caffrey is in the Big Apple. I say we take our time, plan a few stupendous heists, and then give the Feds something to chew on, maybe like a partial print at the crime scenes.”

“But that print won’t be mine,” Neal grins as he gets the picture. “Your little pal, Brahms, will be the culprit.”

“Exactly!” Mozzie crowed. “It’s easy to make a mold of a fingerprint with a bit of warm glue or wax. Then you gently press it onto a solid object and it’s like leaving a smoking gun at a crime scene. Of course, we won’t make it too easy for the cops. We don’t want Brahms to look ridiculously sloppy and careless. Maybe just a partial thumbprint on a door knob or on a glass jewelry case. The detectives can run their find through AFIS til the cows come home, but our little fuzzy buddy won’t be in the system. And the print definitely won’t match yours. Ingenious—right?”

Neal was thoughtful. “Do koala bears even have thumbs, Moz?”

“Yep, they do,” Mozzie confirmed. “It’s an evolutionary thing that allows them to grasp those tasty little leaves they like so much.”

“I think I’m liking this little ruse, Moz,” Neal grinned. “Hopefully, Agent Burke will be the one brought in to investigate some of the capers we pull. Maybe I’ll even give him a call from time to time to ask about any progress he’s made.”

“Don’t get cocky, Neal,” Mozzie warned.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Neal laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

Neal was right, of course. Once the rumors surfaced that Neal Caffrey was back in town, the FBI's White Collar division was called in. It was obvious to Peter that it was only a matter of time before the young thief pulled a job in their fair city. He had his agents canvass their CIs to see if they had heard or seen anything. But nobody had, except for those persistent rumors.

Any doubts as to whether Caffrey was indeed back in New York City were laid to rest when Peter was called in to investigate a break-in. The target was a small community center in Brooklyn. The entrance hall was about four stories high, with large paintings hung all around the highest reaches. An empty frame signified where a magnificent piece by O'Keeffe once stood.

Peter glanced up at the glass ceiling as he entered. The polygon dome was constructed of separate panes that were glued together with an invisible seam. Somebody had cut a neat hole in one of the panes and managed to wriggle through.

The rest of the performance was all on tape. Peter had already seen it, a few times. The thief had used a long fabric which was well fastened on the outer side of the building. He artfully slid down the dangling fabric, and when he was about the right height, he wrapped himself in it, until he was in a sitting position. He then started to swing around. Back and forth he went, getting closer and closer to the surrounding walls. It took him a few minutes, but he was soon just a touch away from the targeted painting. At this point in his aerial silk routine, Peter thought that the thief would have looked good in a Spider-Man costume. He had suction cups tied to his arms and legs, and as he approached the wall on his ever-widening-arc, he used them to anchor himself right by the painting. It took him less than ten seconds to cut out the painting from the frame.

Peter contemplated the dome high up above him. "We need to get agents up there."

Diana looked up as well, her brow furrowing, then back to Peter. He was not joking. "I'm on it," she answered, as she took her phone out. The thief might have been able to tread lightly on those glass panels, but FBI agents on their knees looking for fingerprint and DNA evidence would not be able to copy that trick. They'd have to get cranes and ladders.

Later that day, Peter was back in his office, writing up a report on the most recent caper, when Diana showed up at his door. She was grinning. "We got it!"

Peter didn't follow. "Got what?"

"Techs found a print on the dome!"

A wide grin appeared on Peter's face. "We've got a match?"

"They're checking in the lab."

Peter did not have patience for the official chain of reporting. He was on his feet, excitedly dialing his phone.

"Hey, Steve, it's Peter, from White Collar. About that print you got-"

Diana couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but as it proceeded, she could see that Peter was not happy with what he was hearing.

"You're sure?"

The voice on the other end chirped away.

"Do you mind checking again?" He looked at Diana, and mouthed "no match." A few minutes passed before he got his response. "Yeah, thanks."

"There's no match?" Diana asked, more out of wonder than from a need for an actual answer.

Peter slowly sat back down in his chair, feeling in a daze. None of this made sense. He had been so sure that Caffrey was behind this heist. In fact, he was still sure of it. They already had Caffrey’s fingerprints. So whose prints did they find on the domed roof?

~~~~~~~~~~

“Well, I certainly hope you’ve gotten those exhibitionist tendencies out of your system,” Mozzie told Neal drolly. “Your little _Cirque du Soleil_ performance is now forever immortalized on a security tape!”

“Relax, Moz, there’s no way they can identify me. I wore a hat down low over my eyes and I was wearing night-vision goggles, so facial recognition four stories up will be a bust,” Neal replied smugly.

Mozzie gave a theatrical sigh. “Neal, a good thief or con artist blends into the scenery. He doesn’t stand out and shout _‘Look at me!’_ Have I taught you nothing? You need to be a chameleon, not a show-off. Your presence during a caper has to seem legitimate, as if you are exactly where you are supposed to be. That way you’ll be like part of the wallpaper, and nobody will remember much about you or be able to give an accurate description to the cops.”

Neal didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the lecture. “Do you think Agent Burke knew it was me? I want him to know just how really good I am at breaking the law, even if he can’t arrest me. I left a single koala print on one of those glass panes in the dome and the FBI actually had to bring in a construction derrick to even get close to it. Now, that had to be so frustrating for Peter.”

“So, it’s _‘Peter’_ now. When did you get so familiar with the Suit?” Mozzie demanded to know. When Neal didn’t answer, Mozzie huffed out his own frustrated sigh. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to shine in that man’s eyes. He’s not some father figure that you have to impress. He’s dangerous, and, if you’re not careful, he’ll put you away and lose the key. And let us not forget, my butt is on the line, as well.”

“Mozzie! You know I’d never narc on you!” Neal seemed appalled by that notion.

“But you’re giving me an ulcer, just the same,” Mozzie sulked.

“Okay, okay! We’ll proceed with a little less panache,” Neal replied contritely.

~~~~~~~~~~

And that’s exactly what they did for the next several heists that were happening almost weekly. To continue their crime spree, the two con men arrived at the JFK baggage security terminal dressed in the proper stolen Brinks Security uniforms and with the impressively forged courier identity papers. Neal signed the necessary release forms with a flourish, and was expediently given possession of a shipment of cut and polished diamonds from Switzerland that were meant for Harry Winston’s jewelry store on 5th Avenue in Manhattan. The armored security van was later found in long-term parking wiped clean of prints except for one clear index finger on one of the radio buttons. It did not match Neal Caffrey’s, nor anyone’s in the AFIS data base.

Barely ten days later, Neal seemed to blend into a hoard of young, harried assistants scurrying backstage at a Sotheby’s art auction. When it was time for a rare Gustav Klimt to go up on a pedestal for bidding, the only thing that remained was the frame that had once held a masterpiece. The estimated value of that painting was thought to be in the millions. Sadly, only a partial smudged print could be lifted from the frame, so the work of art and the unmemorable, unidentified thief were in the wind once again.

For the next caper, Mozzie and Neal decided to be a bit more bold in their eclectic game of cat and mouse. They had stolen gems and art, and now it was time for cold, hard cash. There were more moving parts to this crime, and the timing had to be impeccable and precise.

Unlike a certain brash young con man, Mozzie favored disguises. The little bald man arrived at Manhattan’s First Federated Bank one busy and drizzly Friday afternoon dressed in a bland tan raincoat that almost reached the tops of his shoes. He had a floppy Australian Outback hat on his head that would have made Crocodile Dundee proud, and tinted glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose. A nondescript but utile messenger bag hung from one shoulder.

Mozzie slowly meandered around the crowded lobby, moving from the small desks where the deposit and withdrawal slips were located, then restlessly jumping from line to line awaiting service with a teller. During his roving, an invisible gas called mercaptan was slowly seeping from the side of his satchel. Mercaptan has an unpleasant odor that has been described as rotten eggs or decaying cabbage. Utility companies infuse it into natural gas so that a possible fatal leak can be easily detected.

It didn’t take very long before a number of patrons, as well as the bank staff, became aware of the danger. Mozzie quickly exited through the front doors as the bank president instituted an evacuation directive while calling the utility company’s hot line and 911. The disguised con artist hovered on the steps as crowds of people streamed past, rudely jostling him in their haste. It was the perfect opportunity to lift an identity badge from a worried bank employee. Once he had the keys to the kingdom in hand, Mozzie quickly slipped around the corner to where Neal was waiting in a Consolidated Edison van. Mozzie shed the hat and raincoat. Underneath was a sort of hazmat suit that matched the one Neal was already wearing. Both men then donned rebreather masks, grabbed their work boxes, and hurried around the corner. The gathered crowd parted like the Red Sea when they perceived two heroic figures coming to the rescue. Con Ed’s first responders were certainly Johnny-on-the-spot, arriving within minutes, and well before the firetrucks and the boys in blue made the scene.

Once inside the now deserted bank, Neal and Mozzie quickly moved to where an immense cache of money languished in a steel cage that opened after a “borrowed” employee’s badge was swiped across the access panel. The two robbers swiftly stuffed banded stacks of greenbacks into their tool boxes, prudently leaving the ones with dye packs behind. When not another bill would fit into their metal carryalls, they made their way to the street from a basement exit door, but not before Neal turned toward the roving security camera, gave a little wave, and then dropped the purloined badge onto the floor. It was the perfect palette containing a clear copy of Brahms’ index finger and thumb. You had to tweak a certain person’s nerves, right? The next image that was captured on film was an extraneous arm grabbing the taller masked man and yanking him out the door.

“Damn it, Neal, you’ve got to quit showboating,” Mozzie complained once the two men made their getaway in a little Kia sedan. “If you keep winding up the Feds, it’s just going to make them even more determined, and, at some point, something will go pear-shaped on our end.”

“Aw, c’mon, Moz,” Neal cajoled. “The FBI has zip on us. Peter would have told me if they did.”

“What!” Mozzie squawked like a freaked-out parrot. “When did you talk to the Suit, and why would you even think to communicate with the enemy?”

When Neal just shrugged sheepishly, Mozzie actually pulled over to the curb and gave his protégé the stink-eye. “What is it with you and this Peter Burke? Why him, or why any Fed, for that matter? Why do you insist on being obnoxious and trying to prove something? Do you have a death wish? I’m thinking maybe you need a session on the couch with some shrink who can fix whatever is broken inside that head of yours.”

The young man just smiled charmingly. “Peter Burke is smart, and I really admire smart people. That’s why I hang around you, Moz,” he added that hopeful bit of appeasement.

“Yeah, I am smart, my young friend. I’m smart enough not to go around poking dangerous bears with a stick. You’re going to feel really guilty when you have to take me to an emergency room when I’m bleeding out from a ruptured gastric ulcer!”

“Point taken, Moz. I’ll try to do better in the future,” Neal replied contritely. And he really meant it at the time.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t know what he’s trying to prove,” Peter told Elizabeth one morning. He was munching a bowl of wheat flakes, his thoughts far away from his Brooklyn townhouse. Neal Caffrey was thumbing his nose at him, brazenly stealing his way across New York, and leaving the FBI in his tracks. Then there were those taunting phone-calls. Peter hated to admit he kind of enjoyed talking to the young thief, trying to keep him on the line long enough so he could try to trace the call. So far, that never happened. So, all they had were a few partial prints, none of which matched Caffrey’s prints on file. It was frustrating.

Elizabeth didn’t need to ask who Peter was talking about. She’d heard so much of Neal Caffrey the past few weeks. “Don’t you see, Hon?”

“See what?”

“He’s trying to get your attention.”

“That’s for sure,” Peter shook his head, and shoved another cereal-laden spoon into his mouth. 

Elizabeth tried to hide a smile. “Like a little boy on the playground pulling a girl’s pigtail.”

Peter gave Elizabeth a sharp look. He hurriedly finished chewing. “What?”

“Why do you think he’s showing off like this?”

“Because he can?” Peter hazarded a guess.

Elizabeth patted her husband’s arm. “You’re a smart guy. He’s a smart guy.”

“He’s not so smart,” Peter objected. “He’s practically begging to be caught. He continues the way he’s going, he’s gonna end up in jail.”

“He has somebody to show off to,” Elizabeth spelled it out.

Peter wasn’t sure he was following. “You’re saying _I’m_ the reason he’s on a crime spree?”

“Maybe.” Elizabeth got up and kissed her husband’s cheek. “Maybe if you figure out what he’s trying to prove, you’ll find a way to catch him.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When he reached the office, Peter called the White Collar team together in the conference room. A whiteboard was set up along one wall of the room. Each crime that Caffrey was suspected of committing got its own column, and it seemed like soon they would have to put up another board to keep up with the young thief.

Peter wasn’t sure El was right. Sometimes you didn’t have to dig too deep into somebody’s psyche to figure him out. Caffrey was acting out because he could. He was obviously enjoying this game, and it was Peter’s job to put a stop to it.

“Everybody, listen up,” he called, waiting for the chatter to die down. “We’ve been letting Caffrey dictate our pace. We have to find the evidence we need to put him in jail once and for all.” He looked at the expectant faces around the table. “I want us to stop chasing our own tail and review what we’ve got.”

Peter walked over to the board, tapping the first column. “Caffrey’s crime spree started exactly five weeks ago. We’ve been hearing he was back in town for two months now, so we know he’s been planning this for a while.” He then moved down the whiteboard. “Forensics found several partials, which means he’s getting sloppy.”

“But they’re not Caffrey’s prints,” a young probie said.

“True. But they must mean _something_ ,” Peter answered. “No matter how smart he thinks he is, we’ll figure it out. Jones, you’ve got the tapes?”

Clinton nodded, “Right here.”

“Okay, so let’s start by rewatching the security cameras. If you see anything that jumps out at you, shout out.”

Clinton started playing the tape of Caffrey’s swinging act, then moved on to the litany of other crimes. The last tape to play was that of Caffrey’s recent bank robbery. Neal had just stepped off-camera when Diana spoke up, “Wait, what was that?”

“What was what?” Peter shot Diana a glance.

“Can you play the last minute again?”

Clinton obliged, and once again they saw Caffrey – and there was no question in Peter’s mind that this was Neal – wave his goodbyes.

“Stop!” Diana called out. “See that?”

Peter glanced at the screen, then straightened up. “There’s somebody else there,” he stated the now-obvious.

“A partner?” somebody suggested.

“Well, we know that Caffrey doesn’t always work alone,” Peter said, as he considered the still image before him. Maybe he didn’t need to figure out what was driving Neal. If Neal wanted to show off... “Maybe it’s time to give somebody else our attention.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter Burke was now playing his own taunting game to see what that got him. He had to be manipulative and cagy if he wanted to run Caffrey to ground. Maybe Peter should dig down deeper into Caffrey’s psyche because he was a unique exception to the rule. With experience, Peter had found that looking at a case from all angles was definitely better than resorting to a knee-jerk reaction to solve crimes. He had learned over the years that most criminals weren’t the brightest bulbs in the box, and they eventually messed up and were caught. However, there were also the rare ones, mockingly brilliant like Neal Caffrey. Peter knew in his gut that the brazen thief was behind this recent rash of crimes, but, of course, he couldn’t prove it—yet.

So, until he had concrete evidence or managed to nab the young hoodlum in the act, he needed to know more than the “what” and the “how.” He needed to know the “why,” and, definitely, more about his possible wingman. Was that phantom the driving force compelling a young rogue to steal over and over again somewhat randomly? Most times, the prizes were very lucrative, but at other times, the hauls were monetarily less than stellar. Just last week, during a small gallery’s showing of antique French posters, the owners had walked into their studio one morning to find that a Jules Chéret, an Alphonse Mucha, and a Toulouse-Lautrec had walked themselves out the door. Those items were quite valuable to a niche market of collectors, but not nearly in the realm of a Monet.

Of course, that nagging fingerprint evidence was still the bugaboo that Peter had to deal with. Unless Interpol had fumbled the ball, the prints collected from the New York crime scenes weren’t Caffrey’s. Most likely, they were carelessly left behind by his accomplice. Or was it carelessness? Maybe it was more simple—a red herring to confound the FBI, and Caffrey’s way of deflecting suspicion away from himself. Somehow, that didn’t compute for Peter. Caffrey wanted the FBI and, specifically, Peter, to _know_ that he was behind the heists. Why else would he initiate those brief sporadic phone calls that quickly followed on the heels of a theft? So, that brought Peter full-circle—back to the why.

Peter began to think El was right, at least as far as her hypothesis went. Neal Caffrey craved his attention, but Peter still hadn’t a clue why that was. Maybe it was time to initiate a sit-down with his little nemesis. Peter would extend an invitation after Neal’s next communication, which, if he followed the script, would be very soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

Although Neal and Mozzie were close, they didn’t live in each other’s pockets. They would have probably driven each other crazy if they had. So, instead, Neal stayed in his spartan apartment in Lower Manhattan while Mozzie flitted between his safe houses throughout the metropolis. Some of those eclectic spots were actually workshops for Neal. There was a loft in Tribeca with perfect light that had been transformed into an artist’s atelier. Numerous copies of the great masters were tilted on easels in various stages of progression until Neal could swap them out for the real deal in some museum or rich person’s home.

Then there was the converted warehouse in Jackson Heights that contained a kiln for making glassware as well as a furnace that could be fired up to temperatures necessary to replicate gems. A renovated space in the Garment District was jam-packed with high-end type-setting, lithographic, and holographic toys, and even a 3-D printer, all of which made the creation of any type of key, currency, stamp, badge, or passport a cinch.

However, the recently created space in a grain elevator was more of a restful retreat. Neal found it had a Zen-like feel where he could kick back and relax as he lounged on a futon and watched little Brahms placidly chew on his eucalyptus leaves like he hadn’t a care in the world. The young criminal had gifted Mozzie with the recently purloined French posters so he could liven up the place with some color, but Mozzie declined the offering. He claimed that less was more, and the current uncluttered ambiance was fine just the way it was. Instead of being gracious and appreciative, Mozzie was in scolding mode.

“This little indulgent whim with those posters was an unnecessary risk, Neal! When you go off the grid and do something like snatching some shiny thing just because it catches your fancy, it’s rashly irresponsible. It’s on a par with those Martha Washington love letters you swiped—ridiculously impulsive.”

Neal endured Mozzie’s rant and knew his little bald mentor would be even more furious after Neal confessed to the next thing on the agenda. “Um, when I called Peter Burke afterwards, he invited me to have a sit down with him,” Neal finally murmured softly.

Mozzie was appalled. “The Suit actually pulled you in for a grilling session at the Bureau?”

“Nah, Moz. We agreed to meet at that Russian restaurant you favor down in Brighton Beach. Although, I have to admit that I would have preferred the FBI building. I’ve always wanted to know what the 21st White Collar floor looks like.”

Mozzie just rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Well, at least my good friend, Zev, down in little Odessa, could keep an eye on your asinine shenanigans.”

“Yeah, that old Slavic Cossack hovered like a hawk with his talons out,” Neal agreed.

“So, tell me everything about this tenacious G-man,” Mozzie demanded.

Neal shrugged. “Well, for starters, he buys off-the-rack cheap suits, and there were light-colored dog hairs on one of the legs of his trousers.”

“Neal, stop stalling,” Mozzie threatened. “Get to the meat of the matter. What does he have on you, or what does he think he has. It can’t be anything prosecutable, or he would have been arresting you instead of sharing blinis in a Russian mafioso’s establishment.”

Neal knew this was going to be the hard part of the confession. “Well, he knows I’m the one doing the heavy lifting in all the recent capers, but, of course, he’s also entertaining the assumption that I have an accomplice. I mean, that was a foregone conclusion after our two-man heist at the bank. Both of us were caught on camera in the cash vault.”

“Ergo, the Brahms fingerprints, which keep both of us forensically untouchable,” Mozzie agreed. “That was the plan, so what’s changed?”

Neal couldn’t think of a way to spin the next part. “Well, Peter seems to think that you’re some kind of Svengali leading me astray—like I’m immature and emotionally malleable and you’re the evil ogre pulling the strings to control me. He didn’t say it in so many words, but I think his focus has shifted to catching you.”

Mozzie snorted. “He was playing you, mon frère, typical divide and conquer bullshit. I’m going to paraphrase an old Sanskrit parable: _The friend of my enemy is my enemy._ The Suit is trying to convince you that you’re incapable of choosing right from wrong, so you walk a path between the two. Maybe that is exactly what you’re doing Neal—trying to please me while trying to gain attention and a grudging respect from him. I don’t know why I didn’t pick up on that at some point. Maybe you need to choose a side, once and for all, before we go any further.”

“There are no sides in this,” Neal insisted. Mozzie was leery, but decided to sustain some faith in his young protégé.

~~~~~~~~~~

Nonetheless, the next time that Neal and Mozzie rendezvoused to discuss an illegal caper in crowded Central Park, Neal’s cohort in crime was unrecognizable. He had on a jet black wig that ended in poker-straight bangs across his forehead. Round, mole-like dark glasses covered his eyes. He was also sporting a thin manscaped mustache that curved down his jowls, and the small triangular soul patch on his chin seemed to be an afterthought. Mozzie actually talked with a slight lisp, thanks to a dental prosthetic that gave him a distinct overbite. Neal couldn’t decide if his friend’s disguise resembled more Foo Manchu or Charlie Chan.

“Don’t you think you may be overdoing this clandestine costume thing?” Neal asked sardonically.

“If I’m sitting here next to you, I’m fair game for your stalkers,” Mozzie hissed. “My unique transformation will make facial recognition impossible.”

“If you say so, Moz,” Neal sighed heavily.


	4. Chapter 4

Just two weeks later on a Saturday, the Italian consulate was hosting a one night viewing of a recently recovered Caravaggio painting stolen a few months ago from the Borghese Gallery in Rome. The following day, it was to be shipped back to the European museum. Invitations were limited to the crème de la crème of high society patrons of the arts residing in New York City. Peter Burke had wangled an invite courtesy of his FBI credentials. Telling the Italian diplomat that master sneak thief, Neal Caffrey, was underfoot in the city was enough to cement the agreement. Peter wasn’t taking any chances, and neither was the Italian minister. His formidable staff of security guards were prowling the halls just waiting for the chance to take down a legend.

Peter stationed himself just a few feet away from the 14th century Baroque artist’s, “Boy With a Basket of Fruit,” prominently displayed on an easel in an arched alcove that was fashioned to look like a Renaissance church grotto. The work was discretely lit from above to give the painting an almost ethereal aura. It wasn’t long before Peter was rewarded for his foresight. He slowly ambled up to Neal Caffrey’s side and whispered, “Are you planning on stealing it?”

Caffrey didn’t seem startled, as if he expected Peter to be lurking. He merely turned slowly and gave his stalker a cheeky grin. “I think it’s already been stolen once, so doing it again would just seem redundant.”

“Am I hearing correctly?” Peter quipped. “Did you just admit to a theft?”

Neal laughed. “No, Peter, I swear I didn’t steal this painting from the Borghese.” In fact, that was a true statement. Six months ago, while still in Italy, the young cat burglar had swapped out one of his own replicas for the real deal. The current thieves had stolen his doppelganger without anyone being the wiser. Only Neal knew that the initials, _“N C”_ were cleverly interwoven into the strokes that created the basket holding an assortment of peaches and grapes.

“How did you even get in here, Buddy?” Peter asked. “I think you’re persona non grata to the Italians at the moment?”

“I have an invitation,” Neal smiled as he patted the upper pocket of his suit.

Peter took the opportunity to snatch the embossed card and peruse it. “It says that Dr. Vincent Battaglia was invited, not Neal Caffrey.”

Neal shrugged. “Yeah, you see the good doctor is an obstetrician, and he was called away for a delivery—twins, I think, so since that could take a while, he gave me his invite. And now, here I am rubbing shoulders with you.”

“Yes, you are,” Peter agreed facetiously, “and I dare you to try anything.”

Neal ignored Peter’s dire warning. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it,” he murmured as he gazed at his own work. “On one level, it’s a genre piece designed to demonstrate the most sensuous details—everything from the skin of the boy to the skin of the fruit. The weave of the basket is done with meticulous detail, giving it a true sense of realism, and we are drawn into the arrangement like a voyeur.”

“Okay, Hot Shot, enough with the docent color commentary,” Peter huffed. “It’s time for you to go and I’m personally escorting you to the door.”

“Does this mean you no longer like spending time with me?” Neal asked innocently.

“Oh, I’d love to spend a lot of time with you, Neal, in an FBI interrogation room while your hands are chained to a table,” Peter snarked as he took Neal’s elbow and directed him to the exit that opened onto a Manhattan street.

He watched Caffrey saunter out into the night and then turn to give a little wave. Peter narrowed his eyes and threw the young man a stern scowl, just a nanosecond before one of the Italian security guards recognized the departing intruder. Suddenly, a gunshot pierced the air causing Neal to jerk. He looked back at Peter with a bewildered gaze for a moment before stumbling up to a Lincoln Town Car left waiting for a valet at curbside. He quickly slid inside, and in the blink of an eye, was roaring off down the street in the commandeered vehicle.

Peter was instantly on the phone to Diana as he waited for his own Taurus to be brought around. “I’m going to give you a license plate number for a Lincoln Town Car, Diana. Find out if it’s equipped with OnStar. Neal Caffrey’s making a sort of getaway in that car, and I’m too far behind to keep track of him.”

“What do you mean, a ‘sort of getaway,’ Boss? Did he actually manage to steal the Caravaggio under everybody’s nose?”

“He didn’t steal anything—well, maybe he did borrow a car because of exigent circumstances,” Peter informed his probie. “To put it succinctly, all he really managed to do was get himself shot.”

“Did you shoot him?” Diana seemed astounded.

“No, not me, just some nervous, trigger happy security guard, and now I’ve got to find the little idiot before he bleeds out!”

It wasn’t long before the helpful junior agent had a tiny blinking dot installed on Peter’s navigation system. The pursuing FBI agent nervously watched it weave perilously in and out of traffic in Manhattan. Eventually, it seemed headed for Red Hook, a bit less congested, but Peter was still worried as the weaving continued. He didn’t want to spook the young thief by actually riding on his rear bumper, so he kept a fair distance behind. Eventually, about ten miles out, the Lincoln seemed to have come to a stop in a darkened dockside shipyard with a multitude of huge grain elevators standing like redwood trees in a dense forest. Peter quickly exited his vehicle and slowly approached the Town Car, whose door hung open. His flashlight showed a fair amount of blood adorning the leather upholstery in the driver’s seat. Peter scanned the area, but couldn’t seem to spot Neal in the inky blackness. Grabbing a pair of binoculars, he began searching the immense grounds hoping to see Caffrey walking around the maze on two feet instead of lying unmoving in the dirt.

After a gut-wrenching fifteen minutes, Peter spotted a curious thing. One of the massive grain elevators seemed to have a light emanating from its summit, like a beacon atop a lighthouse. Using his binoculars, he was able to recognize Caffrey laboriously climbing what appeared to be a long iron staircase attached to the side of the building. By the time he was nearing the third level, the fleeing con artist was crawling on his hands and knees. Peter ran to the foot of the steps just in time to see a short, bald man emerge from a door and try to drag Caffrey into the structure with little success. Peter took the stairs, two at a time, until he reached the scene. He hefted a babbling young man under his arms and dragged him into the grain elevator while the unidentified other man held the door wide. Peter was astonished to see a fully furnished space, and he gently laid his burden down atop an available sofa. He immediately pulled out his phone to call for an ambulance, but his cell was snatched out of his hands by the “homeowner,” who calmly walked to the door and sent it in an arced trajectory to the ground far below.

“What’s your problem?” Peter growled at the short bespectacled bully. “This man has been shot and he needs immediate care!”

Mozzie was already inspecting his friend’s wound, and when Neal got a good look at his blood-soaked shirt, his eyes rolled up in his head and it was “Goodnight, Irene.”

Mozzie, however, didn’t seem very upset after his initial assessment. “It’s little more than a graze and not nearly as bad as it seems,” the stubborn little tyrant said nonchalantly.

“This man is unconscious, in case you failed to notice!” Peter roared.

Mozzie slanted a condescending look in his unexpected guest’s direction. “Simmer down, Elliot Ness. He’s just crashing after an adrenalin rush, and the sight of blood, especially his own, tends to make him lightheaded. He’ll come around in no time, and I’ve got a first aid kit that will fix him right up.”

“I take it that you’ve done this before, so can I assume you’re the _accomplice_ , or should I say the devil on Caffrey’s shoulder?” Peter intoned gruffly.

“Call me what you like, just stop shouting or you’ll freak out the koala.”

Peter was about to say something, but then stopped. He opened his mouth again, paused, unsure. “The koala?”

Mozzie simply rolled his eyes and, muttering something about FBI agents and lack of awareness, went to get the first aid kit.

It was only then that Peter noticed the eucalyptus tree standing nearby. Between Neal getting shot, this grain elevator which had a Manhattan-loft kind of vibe, and this weird “accomplice” - it wasn’t his fault that he overlooked this unusual fact.

Peter moved over to the tree, which stretched up to the ceiling. He knew all about koalas being able to live completely off eucalyptuses, but he must have heard wrong. There was no way there was an actual koala here. Was there?

The tree rustled ever so slightly, and two black button eyes met Peter’s brown ones. The agent’s eyebrows went up in tandem with his jaw dropping. The animal was thoughtfully chewing a leaf. 

“But...” he turned about, locking on to the short man, who was now tending to Neal. “There’s a koala here!”

“I told you to stop shouting!” The man shouted back.

“Do you have a permit for this animal?”

Mozzie stopped his ministrations to glare at Peter. “Is that all you care about, Mr. Suit?”

“I-”

Peter had a feeling that he was out of his depth. He decided to put the koala aside, for now. “How is he doing?”

“Just fine,” Mozzie harrumphed. “No thanks to you. What is it with you people and guns?”

It took Peter a moment to realize what he was being accused of. “I did not shoot him!”

“No shouting!” Mozzie shouted back, once again.

“Right. The koala.” Peter couldn’t believe he was actually standing here having this conversation.

When Mozzie didn’t respond, he tried again. “You realize that at some point, the FBI will put both of you in jail.”

Mozzie glanced at him long enough to roll his eyes. “And how are you going to do that, Suit?”

“Criminals always make mistakes.”

“Like getting shot?”

“For example.” Peter wondered if he could arrest the two men right now. He did not have enough evidence, but he so much wanted to drag them to an FBI interrogation room and beat a confession out of them. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Mozzie paused, and got up.

Peter took a step back. He knew Neal Caffrey inside and out, but he had no idea about this accomplice of his. He was here without backup, nobody knew where he was, and he had no way of notifying his team. He wondered if he should draw his gun and get the hell out of here.

Mozzie had no problems reading all of that in the FBI agent’s face. “You want some coffee?”

“What?”

Mozzie moved to the kitchen area, where he took out two glass mugs from an overhead closet. A moment later, he returned to Peter and handed him a mug of steaming coffee. He then headed towards the central area of the room, where he sat down on an empty couch. Peter hesitated, but then followed, taking a seat on a plush sofa across from his 'host.’ Neal’s prone body was stretched out by their side, his chest slowly heaving, showing he was still alive.

“So,” Mozzie called Peter’s attention. “You wanted to tell us how we should stop whatever you think we’re doing or the FBI is going to catch us?”

Peter took a long sip of his coffee, more to put off having to answer than anything else. “I’m just telling you how it is.”

“Hm.” Mozzie glanced at Neal, before turning his gaze back to Peter. “You know, he’s a good kid.”

“I know.”

Mozzie seemed to take that admission in stride. “And he doesn’t belong in jail.”

“Thieves belong in jail.” Peter could see that wasn’t really convincing the other man. He tried a different tact. “Look, Neal can really make something of himself.”

Mozzie just nodded, which Peter took as encouragement.

But before he could say anything else, Neal started moving. His eyes fluttered open, and he smiled at Moz. “You won’t believe what happened, Moz.”

“Shhhh!” Moz hurried to shush his friend before he confessed to something he’d regret later. He tilted his head in Peter’s direction, and mouthed the word “suit.”

Neal frowned at Moz. He grappled his way to sit up and turned to look. He froze for a millisecond when he saw Peter, but then his features softened. “Hey, Peter.”

The FBI agent cleared his throat. Both men were staring at him, expectantly. “How are you doing, Neal?” he finally asked.

“Just fine, I guess.” 

“Take off your shirt, Neal," Mozzie ordered, as he put down his coffee. He looked back at Peter. “Was there anything else?”

“Uh... no. I guess not.” 

“So, do you mind giving us some privacy?”


	5. Chapter 5

Peter tilted the chair back in his office. He really wasn’t sure why he had returned to the FBI building in the wee hours of the morning on a weekend. It wasn’t as if he had to complete any paperwork on the shooting that took place earlier tonight outside the Italian consulate. That was a task for the local precinct cops, and it would have been professionally awkward if the FBI trampled all over their turf. He doubted the NYPD would ever find the injured party, and Neal certainly wouldn’t be popping up to press any assault charges. Of course, there was the “stolen” Lincoln, but Peter was sure that had been driven away from Red Hook and abandoned elsewhere once Peter had left the grain elevator. And that was another mystery—why had he agreed to just leave two obvious criminals to their own devices? Why hadn’t he told the boys in blue where Caffrey was holed up?

Maybe this whole “relationship” thing with Neal Caffrey was messing with Peter’s head. He really did want to arrest the guy and stop the annoying crime spree, right? Of course, he did. So why was he dragging his heels using the “no evidence” excuse, time and again?

Peter suspected that he may have lost his perspective and should just step away and delegate this ongoing case to another agent. But that would mean admitting that a young upstart and his weird accomplice had gotten the better of him, and Peter Burke was no quitter. Giving up on Neal was a two-edged sword. Not only would Peter be sacrificing an eventual impressive bust, he would also be giving up the chance of possibly turning a young guy around. Sure, Neal might have to do some jailtime, but Peter was sure that once the foolish kid was free of his overbearing partner in crime, he could be rehabilitated. A bleak future didn’t have to be etched in stone. There was so much untapped potential that could enable Neal to become a productive member of society. And when had Caffrey become _“Neal”_ in Peter’s mind? This was bad and portended a very slippery slope for a dedicated Federal Agent.

Peter again thought back to the brief discussion with the short, bald “medic” in the strangely transformed grain elevator. Talk about going down the rabbit hole! Well, that weird burrow had its own type of atypical creatures. What the hell was a live koala doing in New York City? And how did the little creature figure into the mystery? How could Peter put the pieces of the puzzle together if he couldn’t see the whole picture?

With nothing else to go on, and perhaps out of boredom, Peter began researching the small, furry marsupial animals on line. He read everything he could find about their habitats, their eating and mating habits, and their life spans. Then he hit on a curious thing. He sat spellbound as he perused an article in a scientific journal about the unique similarity between the fingerprints of humans and koalas. Peter wondered how that fact had ever been established. Why would zoologists even study an animal’s fingerprints? Were the little varmints kleptomaniacs or something, stealing each other eucalyptus branches? But, nonetheless, it was an “Aha” moment for him. Could all of those partial prints left behind at crime scenes belong to the little fuzzball sitting placidly in a tree?

Peter knew it would look foolish, but nonetheless, he collected all the necessary equipment to take fingerprints in the field. When arrested perps were fingerprinted in-house, it was just a matter of them placing their entire hand on an electronic screen where their prints were instantly captured, allowing a computer image to be generated. Well, Peter couldn’t exactly bring a little live beast into the FBI building. He would look like he had lost his mind. So, he was going old school. With ink pads and glossy sheets of fingerprint paper in hand, he set out first thing in the morning for Red Hook. It was a bit harder to find the right grain elevator in the daylight because it blended right in with so many others. When he finally zeroed in on the one he thought looked familiar, he strode purposely up the iron stairs, stopping only briefly to consider whether he should knock or just barge right in. He finally decided on barging.

Peter was dumbstruck to find the entire space completely empty. Gone were the sofas and futons, the tiny makeshift kitchenette, the oriental rug, and, most astoundingly, even the huge tree that had once stretched up to a multipaned skylight. Everything had simply vanished during the night. In stunned disbelief, Peter walked around the cavernous interior of what was now just a parquet floor in an empty grain elevator. He made at least two circuits while he tried to wrap his head around this disappearing act that included a koala when he heard something crunch under his foot. Peter slowly bent down and picked up a piece of “evidence” in the form of a small, partially chewed eucalyptus leaf.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie and Neal were kicked back on the sand of Bondi Beach in Sydney. Neal was allowing the sun to dry his bronzed body after surfing in the world famous Australian waves.

“Put your sunscreen on, Neal,” Mozzie preached from under the umbrella where he had most of his pale body swathed in a towel.

“Yes, Mom,” Neal replied flippantly.

Both men sighed contentedly in unison. “This place is like paradise,” Neal murmured.

“Yep, it is,” Mozzie agreed. “But it’s only a temporary respite from real life, mon frère. After I deprogram you and you’re able to give up your unhealthy fixation on a certain FBI Agent, then we’ll join reality’s arena once again. There are tantalizing opportunities just awaiting our attention. Perhaps Europe or Asia would be a better choice until I feel assured that you are truly cured of your obsession.”

Neal knew better than to argue with his mentor. Instead, he merely took the conversation in a safer direction. “Do you think Brahms is happy now that he’s back on his native soil?”

Mozzie pondered that question for a minute before coming up with his own hackneyed adage. “Fish don’t do well out of water,” he said sagely. “Sort of like us, Neal. We do what we do because it comes natural for us. And because we’re damn good at it,” he added for good measure.

“So, is that your roundabout way of saying that going straight won’t work out for me?” Neal wanted to know.

“I’ll let you draw your own conclusions,” Mozzie replied softly.

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.livescience.com/14007-koalas-human-fingerprints.html


End file.
